


177 - Cute Nicknames, Bestselling Books, & Good Things

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 05:24:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17400851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompts “Van feeling like he’s not giving ready enough love or time and she has to convince him that she knows he loves her and she’s so proud of him like (extra if reader surprises van with her own career milestone like a book or album of her own and like uses it to show that she has her own thing too)” and “reader getting a tattoo and Van being there making fun but at same time he would be supportive and cute”





	177 - Cute Nicknames, Bestselling Books, & Good Things

It was probably regular printer paper, but it felt heavier. Thicker. The white of it had a creaminess and the ink was a deep black. You'd always loved stationery, so you took your time noticing those details before starting on the actual letter. It was from a publishing house. You were used to getting mail from them, but you'd learned to recognise the rejection letters without needing to even open the envelope. They were always mass produced things. Cheap stationery prone to producing paper cuts. Template written. Nothing like the correspondence in your hands.

Maybe the publishing house just cared about everything that left their doors, regardless of it being good news or bad. Maybe someone had taken the time to read your entire manuscript and provide meaningful feedback. That had happened once before. Maybe it really was about to deliver the dream you'd had since you first strung the alphabet together in a messy sentence.

You'd gotten as far as reading your name when Van walked through the front door. He was followed by Little Mary, her nails scratching at the floorboards and her bark bouncing off the walls. After them was Larry. Your holy trinity. You stuffed the letter back in the envelope and put in your bag.

"Hey, buttercup!" Van greeted. You walked to him and let him lift you by the waist and spin you around. It was good to have them all home. They'd flown in the night before, woken up late, then went out to get food. The kitchen filled with the smell of hot pastry and fresh bread.

You would wait to read the letter. Later in the night, when Van and Larry were in the lounge watching television, you'd sneak off to have a bath. Under the water you'd sit and read the words. Little Mary's head would pop up at the sound of your muffled crying.

"This is it," you'd tell her. She'd more interested in the bubbles than your soon to be published novel.

…

"I'm just, so fuckin' mad," Van repeated. His knuckles were white, hands gripping the steering wheel too hard.

"Do you want me to drive?" you asked. He shook his head. "It's fine, Van. I don’t care what people think,"

"Not people, Y/N. Just that one guy," Larry added from the backseat.

"Exactly. Just one person. Besides, if anyone should be upset, it's me," you said to Van. He slammed on the breaks when he almost ran through a stop sign. You had to stop yourself from hitting the dashboard head first with your arms. Larry whispered something about whiplash.

"Sorry," Van muttered.

You'd been to dinner and a guy that was maybe part of management or the promoting company or whatever, had apparently never escaped the Fifties. He'd spoken to you like you'd not been given an education, then had assumed you were a housewife. He wanted to know what that was like, given Van was always away on tour. 

There were a lot of things to unpack about the question. Firstly, there was the nasty tone of his voice that meant he thought badly of housewives. Women should and could do whatever the fuck they wanted, and picking that lifestyle was equally as valid as any other. Secondly, where did he get the idea that you were married? You'd not even been wearing rings? Lastly, importantly, there was the assumption that you didn't work or have a life separate to Van.

Before you had the chance to go through any of that, Van was on him.

"Mate, I don't fuckin' own her," he said.

"Well, you pay for everything, right? So, I mean, it's-" the guy replied. A mistake. Van stood and immediately you and Larry, either side of him, stood too.

Things were settled with a joke and another round of drinks. Van said very little for the rest of the dinner. You followed him when he went out for a smoke. He still wouldn't talk, but he let you wrap your arms around him and hold him tight. After dinner and in the car, he exploded.

Waiting at the stop sign for a truck to pass, you tried to work out what exactly Van was so upset about. Bless his little cotton socks, but he didn't always pick up on the underlying sexism of people's comments. Even when he did, he'd usually shut them down without as much rage. It was something else.

"Van? What's… Like, what about this has made you so angry?" you asked. He chewed at his lip, and you looked back at Larry. He shrugged. "Van?" He shrugged too, and even though you knew he probably could answer, you left it.

…

Larry had taken Mary for a walk. The house was quiet; there wasn't even music playing. At first you couldn't find Van, then as you walked through the kitchen you spotted him out the window. He was sitting against the back fence, almost completely hidden by the tree. How long had he been out there?

You sat down next to him and handed him a mug of tea.

"Thanks, buttercup," he said. His voice was flat, like it had been since the dinner. You couldn't get him to talk about it much, but whatever had been said had triggered something in him. He was placid and apathetic. Two things Van had never been.

"I'm worried about you," you told him. He leant his head back on the fence and looked up at the tree. There was sun shining through the branches, and it left spots of light across the grass and Van's body.

"I'm fine. Are you?"

"Yeah, I told you I wasn't much bothered,"

"But… I know you're trying to write your book and everything, but… You're okay with how we're livin'?" he asked. That had been it, then. Van was worried that there was truth to what the guy had said. That maybe you really were just a girl with a life paid for by a boy, and that you didn't do much separate to loving Van. Maybe you should have told him when the book was done. Maybe you should have told him when you started sending it to publishers. Maybe you should have told him that you had a meeting with your new agency the following Tuesday. Lost in contemplation of all those maybes, you'd not replied. "I know we've been focused on the band for so long, and that it's been hard to think of much outside of that… but I love you, you know? And if you want me to slow down the touring, or if you want to… I don't know, like, go study or if you want to move or… anythin' at all. We will. I'll do anythin' you want,"

"Van, Van, slow down. Calm down. It's not like that. Is that what you think?" you said, sitting up on your knees and wrapping your arms around his neck. He pulled you onto his lap and pressed his head to your chest. He gave a half-shrug and looked up at you.

"I don't know. I don't know what I think, 'cause I never thought about it before. I should have. I should have thought about your life too,"

"Babe, you do. Why did you start Catfish?"

"You know why,"

"Yeah," you said with a grin, "But tell me again,"

"To make my dad proud, and to get you to like me,"

"Yeah. So even if we're focused on the band, the band is for me, right? A lifelong gift?"

Van smiled and nodded. "I was just tryna' get in your pants, love."

You laughed. "You were fourteen. You would not even have known what to do,"

"So, not much has changed," he replied with a smirk.

"God, Van. You're… No. Not much has changed. You're still the same scruffy goob of a kid and I'm still just tryna' keep track of you. Writing it all down," you said with a smile that was born out of pure and reckless affection. He reached up and held your cheeks in his palms, sandwiching your hair between you and him. 

"How's it going? The book?" he asked as you took his hands away from your face to kiss his fingertips.

"Wait here," you said, getting up suddenly. His arms reached up after you.

"Bring my smokes out?!" he called after you.

"Yep,"

"Thanks, buttercup."

The letter was hidden in your printed manuscript, which was hidden in the bookcase that Van never used. Reading was your thing. You carried them both and a carton of cigarettes back outside. Moving to sit next to Van, he pat his legs to indicate he wanted you back on his lap. Straddling him, comfy and at home, you handed over the manuscript. 

"It's done,"

"Finished?! Told ya writer's block ain't a thing. Am I allowed to read it?" he asked, grinning and flipping through the pages. He stopped on any page where you purple pen marked handmade edits.

"Do you want to? 'Cause you don't have to. I mean, it's not by Mike Skinner," you joked. He looked up, face serious.

"Y/N. Of course I wanna read it. This is the most important thing in the world,"

"Okay. But if you can wait a couple of months, you can buy a proper copy and I'll make money, so, do that," you replied with a one shoulder shrug, like it was nothing. Van looked at you while he processed. Slowly, his mouth curved into a grin. You handed over the letter, and as he read you watched his expression. It reminded you of the first time a crowd sung his lyrics back to him. And the second time. And every time since. Van never really got used to the good and he never took it for granted.

"Buttercup!" he yelled, standing and picking you up in one dangerous motion. You wrapped your legs around his waist and let him spin around and around and around. You screamed his name to stop but resigned to laughter.

…

You were throwing the ball to Larry, who would throw it back. Little Mary ran back and forth trying to catch it from the air. Too small, but persistent, you and Larry laughed at her while she continued to jump.

"What's all this then?" Van asked, drawn outside by his dog's barking. "What you doin' that for?! Torturing her?"

He grabbed the ball in the air and rolled it to her. She picked it up happily and bounded over to him. No wonder he was her favourite. You all sat down on the grass, Larry and Van sharing a smoke; you and Van sharing a mug of tea. The ground was scratchy, and as you went to itch your leg you looked at the blank canvas of your skin.

"I'm gonna get a tattoo," you announced.

"What of?" Larry asked.

"Something about the book. Now that it's like… sold… and stuff, you know?"

"It's on the bestseller's list. I'd say it's done more than just sold," Van said, passing the mug to you.

"So, you're gonna get the book tattooed to ya?" Larry asked, or maybe it was a suggestion.

"I'm not as literal as you, mate," you replied, pointing to the alligator on his arm. "I'll think of something. You guys wanna come?"

"No," Larry said straight away. "Boring watching people get tattooed,"

"Course I'll come," Van said.

"You couldn't watch us not give Mary her ball. How you gonna watch this one be poked with a needle for a couple of hours?" Larry asked.

"Think the better question is how is this one gonna survive getting poked with a needle for a couple of hours?" Van countered. 

"I've spent my life around you two. I know somethin' about tolerating pain."

Van and Larry laughed and made 'ohhhhhhhh' sounds. Little Mary barked at the noise, and Van took her inside for a treat because she'd been "bullied" all day.

…

The pain of a tattoo was like a really, really bad sunburn being scratched and scraped at with sandpaper and razorblades. Somehow though, it was bearable. It was a pain for a gain type of thing; like waxing and childbirth. You'd get something out of it, so the pain had purpose and purpose meant focus and focus made it tolerable. Also helpful was Van. His interest in the process and his happy conversation provided a good distraction.

"You're squirming, buttercup," he said. You knew you were. It was hot and your leg hurt from being in the twisted position.

"Hush," you replied.

"Do you need to get up and have a walk?" he asked. Yes. Yes, you did. You didn't want to ask for a break though. The tattoo artist sat up and looked from Van to you.

"I can go have a smoke if you want a minute, babe," she said.

"I'm okay," you replied as a bead of sweat rolled down your back.

"I want a smoke. Let's all have a break," Van announced standing. He winked at you, giving you the out you both wanted and needed.

An hour and a half later, it was almost over. Van was holding your hand and singing softly to you. Lucky he didn't get embarrassed easy. It was probably the most cheesy, lame thing the artist had ever seen. If your cheeks weren't already red from the stress of the pain, they would have turned scarlet because of Van.

"It looks really good," Van told you, sitting up straight to stretch out his spine.

After beaming at your leg in the mirror for a good five minutes, you were wrapped in paper towel and sent on your way. On the way back to the car, you were limping. Van scooped you up like a bride, eliciting laughter. You let him buckle you in.

"You know my hands are fine?" you said. He just grinned, kissed your forehead and closed the door.

Half way home Van looked over at you. "Dead proud of you,"

"For getting tattooed?"

"That, and the book, and just… everything. You're amazin,"

"So are you. We've done good for a couple of kids from nowhere, huh?" you replied, ruffling his hair. "I love you,"

"Love you too, buttercup."


End file.
